


Raising Rosie (And Occasionally Sherlock)

by TheSleeplessWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Shelter, Bath, Cough Syrup, Cuddle, Drabble, Fanfiction, Fluff, Gen, Pets, Science Experiments, Short Story, Sickfic, Three Stooges reference, mild johnlock, parenting, violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleeplessWriter/pseuds/TheSleeplessWriter
Summary: A series of one shots on John's adventures of raising Rosie Watson. Don't worry, he has Sherlock to help, even if he sometimes has to be a parent to him too.





	1. Rosie and the Violin

"John! Your offspring is crying again." Sherlock yells from his chair, maintaining eye contact with the baby that is seated in a high chair. 

Today is a rainy day, the grey skies reflecting just how flat out boring it is. Normally, Sherlock would be shooting smiley faces onto the wall. But that's not allowed anymore. Something about safety around the baby. 

"Her name's Rosie, and I'm sure she'd appreciate it if you could call her that. She's probably hungry." John pauses from writing his blog and walks to the kitchen. 

"Didn't we just feed her?" Sherlock asks, peering at Rosie's reddening face. 

"Heads up!" John tosses a hot bottle in Sherlock's direction, which he catches with ease. 

"She should be drinking out of sippy cups by now." Sherlock remarks. "She's already one."

"I know, I know. Next week we'll start." John sighs, rubbing his eyes. The sippy cups sit on the top shelf, always forgotten. 

"You said that last week." Sherlock raises his voice, as the child in front of him screams louder. He hands Rosie the bottle. 

It stays in her hands for precisely two seconds before she throws it, hitting Sherlock square on the nose. 

"Agh, bloody hell!" Sherlock glares at the baby as he rubs his nose. 

"Don't swear in front of her!" John chides, moving Sherlock's hands away to check on his nose. It's quite red and may bruise, but it's not broken. 

"That was not very nice, Rosamund." John wags his finger at his little daughter, failing miserably at looking stern. It was a little funny to see Sherlock's surprised face. 

She simply gives a devilish smirk that could rival Sherlock's. Unfortunately, she forgets how fun it was to see her Da injured and starts crying again. 

"Play something on the violin, maybe that'll work." John advises, plugging his ears as his cranky child wails. 

Sherlock agrees, picking up his beloved instrument and playing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." John lifts Rosie from her high chair and holds her, swaying along to the music. 

It isn't until the second verse that Rosie calms down. Her parents both sigh in relief, glad for a little quiet. 

Sherlock moves onto a more complex piece, happy to see that Rosie still likes it. She smiles and attempts to move along to the music. 

"Your child has taste." Sherlock says with a grin. "I'll teach her to play when she's older. You know, an interest in the violin is a sign of intelligence."

John leans Rosie closer so can see. Her curious little hand reaches out, and John sees the rest happen in slow motion. 

She takes hold of the thinnest string, pulling it until it breaks. Sherlock drops his violin in surprise just as Rosie starts to cry, this time in pain. 

"She broke my E string!" Sherlock yells mournfully, picking up his instrument delicately, as if it was a fallen friend. 

"She hurt her hand." John says, bouncing Rosie on his knee as he tries to placate her. He opens her little palm, a harsh red line slashes across her fingers. 

"My poor Rosie." John comforts, hushing her and patting her sparse hair. "Go get her a cookie." Even though he has little experience on babies, he knows that cookies make everything better. 

"Mmhm. So you award her for her destruction by giving her a cookie?" Sherlock asks with a raised brow. 

"She's just a baby." John is quick to defend his daughter and her curiosity. Sherlock rolls his eyes and goes to the cookie jar. 

"I bet that hurt a lot, didn't it Rosie?" John says, holding her close to his chest. 

"Buddy hayl." She says in agreement, holding her wounded fingers. 

"SHERLOCK!"


	2. But, SCIENCE

"Sherlock, get in here right now." John forces himself to not scream bloody murder. His heart had just about stopped when he walked in, immediately thinking this was a crime scene. 

Rosie sits on the kitchen floor, laughing and clapping as she sits in a pool of what she believes is finger paint. Of course it's not paint. That would be the normal kind of mischief you can expect from a toddler. The liquid is everywhere, on her hair, in her ears, on her cheeks. John picks his daughter up, settling her on his hip. 

She's wearing the lovely pyjamas that Mrs. Hudson gave her. Of course. 

Sherlock walks in, an easy smile on his face. "Hi Love." He says, stepping forward for a kiss, only to have John back away. This leaves a puppy eyed expression on his face, a carbon copy of the one Rosie uses when she wants another cookie. 

"Would you care to explain why our baby is drenched in blood?" John demands, shouting the last words as he plucks her little fingers from her mouth. 

"Calm down, it's only pig's blood." Sherlock says, hands up in an defensive gesture. "I left her watching Bill Nye, an American educational program. I was just going to get her dummy. You're deductive skills are poor, but I'm sure you can assume the rest." Sherlock hands it to Rosie, her smile wide.

"Ta tu." She says, her words garbled as she speaks around the bumblebee dummy. 

"You're quite welcome." Sherlock replies, landing a kiss on her head. He speaks to her the same as he would to an adult. Sherlock firmly believes that Rosamund Watson will not have to endure annoying baby talk. 

"But why would you have a large basin of pig blood in the kitchen?" John is a bit more calm after seeing the happy smile on his daughter's face. "Wait, let me guess. An experiment." His eyes travel across the room, various organs and bodily fluids on the table.

"You're moving this all to Bart's. It's not safe, not with Rosie." John instructs, using a napkin to wipe blood off her cheeks. 

"Jooohn." Sherlock complains, arms crossed, even though he knows John is right. Rosie loves to watch, especially when the chemicals have bright colors. He has already been conducting less dangerous and more child friendly experiments. He can't even remember the last time he used hydrochloric acid. 

"I'm going to go run the bath, you can get started cleaning that up." John hands Rosie to Sherlock. "How did she even reach the table?" 

"She climbed the chair. Obviously." Sherlock says, his tone screaming "DUH". 

John scoops up a handful of her toys from the playpen before leaving, taking care to remember the rubber bumblebee, her favorite. 

"He's no fun, is he Rosie?" Sherlock remarks, holding her at eye level. She babbles something in baby language which sounds like an agreement. "We'll just have to show him."

\----------

"Sherlock, a little help please?" John calls from the bathroom. Sherlock wrings out the bloody rag and tosses it into the clean bucket before standing to go see what is so important. 

John is soaked from head to toe in red tinted water, his sleeves rolled up and stained. Rosie sits among the bloody water, proud to be the queen among the bubbles. Every time John nears her, she flails her limbs in the water, twisting her head to avoid the shampoo. 

"Rosamund, please." John begs, completely exasperated. This has been going on for ten minutes, and he's gotten nowhere. The only thing achieved is getting her tiny fingers and toes wrinkly. 

His only response is a rubber bumblebee to the face. 

"That's not nice." Sherlock reproaches, faint memories of his childhood flooding in. He was quite the same as at her age. 

She sticks out her tongue at him, crossing her arms. "No." She shouts, believing her words final. It's not often when she speaks. Heaven knows where she learned that. 

"Careful John, or she'll end up like me." Sherlock warns, even though he's a little proud that his daughter's got spirit. At least she's not a pushover. 

"From what Mycroft says, it sounds as if you were a little hellraiser." John says, wiping water from his with a towel. 

"Well, he exaggerates." 

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bathtub, lifting Rosie from her watery fortress and placing her in his lap. 

"No! No no no." She shouts, trying to wriggle from his grip. 

"Do you want me tell you a story?" Sherlock asks, knowing that he's said the magic word. 

"Tory?" Rosie peers into his eyes, making sure he isn't lying. Warm brown eyes meet grayish green. 

Sherlock looks at John and nods his head. 

"Once upon a time, there was this giant castle that looked like a person. It could walk and talk. It had lots of soldiers inside, wearing white hats. They were very small, smaller than you!" John lathers the soap into her hair while she looks up to listen to the story of white blood cells. 

"Then one day, a big, bad monster arrived. He was ugly and green, and he wanted to make the castle sick. His name was Virus."  
Sherlock tips her head back so John could rinse her hair. 

"But there was a brave little soldier, whose name was John. He got his friends and said, "We will not let you take over our castle!" John and his friends picked up their swords and fought Virus. He was strong, but John was stronger. Virus was defeated, and the castle lived to see another day. The end." Sherlock finishes as he wraps a towel around Rosie. 

Her eyes are half lidded and her head is nodding forward a bit. It's time for her nap anyway. 

\----------

For the first time in a who knows how long, John doesn't wake to the sound of Rosie screaming to get out of her crib. It's 8 in the morning and Sherlock's already left his side of the bed, probably moving his supplies to Bart's. 

Something isn't right. Everything's eerily quiet. No crying, irritating toddler tv, or mess-making can be heard. Rosie rarely oversleeps. 

Just to calm his nerves, John gets up and checks Rosie's crib. Which is empty. He races across the rest of the flat, calling her name and making sure she isn't hiding. 

John fumbles with his cell phone, texting Sherlock as fast as his thumbs can. 

WHERE IS ROSIE?

We're at Bart's.  
-SH

John groans and gets dressed quickly. He hails down a cab, gritting his teeth as he says the address. 

 

"You see, you add the drop the hydrochloric acid and the ammonia- Good morning John." Sherlock pauses in his teaching, putting down the two droppers. 

Rosie sits in a high chair next to Sherlock, comically large goggle covering most of her face. 

"You said I had to move everything to Bart's. With that comes Rosie's scientific education." Sherlock explains before John can start yelling. 

"You should have told me. And how did you sneak her in here?" John says, knowing that Molly would never let Rosie in. 

"She fits inside my coat." Sherlock says with a sheepish smile. "Calm down, she likes it." Rosie smiles and claps to solidify that statement. 

John sighs, admitting that he overreacted. "Just be careful. And child friendly. No slicing up cadavers or anything."

"Of course." Sherlock says. "Not until she's five." He adds under his breath. 

John heard anyway, but let's it slide. They'll cross that bridge when they get to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I ended up making this into a series! If you have any requests or prompts, send them to my tumblr, punk-cotton-candy. Feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism.


	3. Sick Day

Sneezing, coughing, and crying filled 221B this particular morning. A nasty bug has been tormenting most of England's people, and it hit the hardest for Sherlock and Rosie. 

"For the last time John, I'm perfectly fine!" Sherlock insists, his watery eyes and haggard breathing betraying him. A bottle of grey cough syrup stands ominously on the table in between him and John. He wears his blue dressing gown and pyjamas, ruffled hair and bare feet making him look like a small child. 

John holds Rosie on his hip, bouncing her up and down as he tries to placate her screeching. 

"J-just get the thermometer." John says impatiently, checking Rosie's forehead with the back of his hand. It is definitely too warm. He wipes tears away from her too red cheeks with his thumb. 

Glad to be free from the dreadful medicine, Sherlock dashes off to the kitchen. He returns with the thermometer, as well as a moist kitchen towel. He lands a kiss on her fevered forehead as he hands John the instrument. 

John swipes the thermometer across her forehead, trying to shush her loud cries. It reads 38.4 degrees. 

"Oh dam- I'll have to miss work." John sighs, shifting his daughter to his other arm as he reaches for his phone. "Sarah will raise hell."

"I can take care of her." Sherlock offers, even though this means he will have to turn down the latest case from Lestrade. A shame too, as it was rather intriguing. A seven at least. 

John simply scoffs, turning to Sherlock and raising an eyebrow. He dabs the wet towel across her forehead. 

"I am an adult!" Sherlock frowns, resisting the strange urge to cross his arms and stomp his feet. It stung a bit that John didn't trust him. 

"Yes, a sick one. I don't care how old you are, a sick man is a child." John replies, holding the cell to his ear. 

Sherlock attempts to retort a good counter argument, but is overcome with a harsh fit of coughing. That sort of defeats his response. 

Sherlock wanders into the kitchen, ideas floating around his head. He picks up a vial of purple liquid, a smile growing on his face. 

After the reluctant explanation, John enters the kitchen, the cough syrup remembered and held tight in his hand. 

"What the he- What is that?" John stumbles over his weak curse. A mysterious dark green liquid bubbles inside a measuring cup, a whitish smoke emitting from it. 

"Can't watch your tongue?" Sherlock smirks, bringing out a spoon. 

"It's serious, Sherlock. Remember her play date with Molly's nephew last week? Apparently little Tommy now knows four elaborate new swear words, as well as the correct context." John sidetracks, remembering how Molly shouted at him for a solid ten minutes. "Anyway, what is that?" 

"It's my cough syrup." Sherlock says proudly, presenting the cup with a smile. 

"You'll poison yourself." John eyes the cup. The smoke started to die out, but it still looked dangerous. 

"I'm a graduate chemist! I cannot believe you have such doubt in my capabilities." Before Sherlock can continue rambling, John snatches the cup from his hand. 

He drops Rosie into her high chair, taking a tentative sniff of the "medicine". Swishing it around, he dips his finger in, tasting it to confirm his suspicions. 

"Sugar water and food coloring." John states, giving Sherlock the Look. "As well as a bit of dry ice." 

"It was worth a try." Sherlock admits, dropping his head in defeat. John drops the cup into the sink, it joining a multitude of science equipment. 

John reaches into his pocket, pulling out a little bottle of medicine. It is a ghastly neon pink, looking as if it could be a prop in a B list film. 

"Jooohn." Sherlock complains as John unscrews the little item of terror. 

"This one's for Rosie. That one's yours." John jerks his thumb towards the horrid grey cough syrup that stands on the counter. "Open, Rosie." 

Despite having never tasted cough syrup, Rosie knew that whatever it was, it couldn't be good. Just look at Sherlock's reaction. Her lips remain firmly closed, a stubborn expression on her face. She looks so much like John when she makes that face. 

"Please?" John attempts, holding the spoon near her face. She almost retorts a loud "NO", but decides against it. Instead, little Rosie shakes her head, crossing her tiny arms. 

"Sherlock, you've got to show her. Make yourself an example." John says after a few minutes, placing down the spoon and reaching for a different one. Sherlock watches in horror, sitting on the countertop. 

He fills it to the brim with the dark, thick liquid, much to Sherlock's disappointment. He wears a forlorn expression on his face. 

"Look, its grape flavored." John encourages, holding up the bottle. A cartoon grape cluster grins on the label. 

"It's artificially flavored." Sherlock stalls. He was always bad at this as a child. He can recall Mycroft holding back his arms as Mother pushed the syrup spoon into his mouth. 

John nods his head towards Rosie, who is watching intently. If her Da won't do it, neither will she. 

"John, this is cruel and unusual punishment." Sherlock pleads, wide grey green eyes full of sadness. For goodness' sake, it's just cough syrup! 

He finally relents, opening his mouth as John shoves the spoon in. A disgusted expression contorts Sherlock's lovely features. He's always been dramatic. 

"Look Rosie!" John says, trying one more time. "Da did it." 

Rosie audibly sighs before taking the medicine. She frowns at the ultra sweet flavor. John smiles, petting her hair. "That's a good girl."

Neither Sherlock nor Rosie have actually swallowed. When John isn't looking, Sherlock sneakily spits it out into the sink. 

So naturally, Rosie spits it out into her daddy's face. Despite her fever, she laughs and claps, Sherlock off in the side sniggering. His laughs soon turn into another coughing fit. 

By this point, John's just about given up. After cleaning up, he resigns to the couch. Sherlock and Rosie soon join with an apology tea. 

They cuddle on the couch, Rosie sitting in between her parents. Two fleecy blankets are tangled up amidst them. John flicks through the channels, looking for something child-friendly. Preferably not another 48 Hours: Hard Evidence. Rosie already knows too much about homicide for her age. 

"Bill Nye, she likes that!" Sherlock exclaims, pointing towards the tv. It's much better than some of the other vile children's programs he's been forced to endure. 

Lucky for them, there is a marathon of Bill Nye the Science Guy. They stay in their little nest all day, save for the few times Sherlock felt too nauseous. Lunch was made of Mrs. Hudson's famous healing chicken soup, dinner comprising of cookies and milk. 

They fell asleep early that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while reminiscing of all the sucks times my family got the flu, cold, or stomach bug. 
> 
> Hope you liked it, and feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism. Go ahead and send prompts at my Tumblr: punk-cotton-candy


	4. The Naughty Chair

"Stay strong, Sherlock." John whispers from across the room. 

Sherlock is crouched to the floor, face to face with Rosie, who has a stubborn expression on her face. Her arms are crossed as she stands amidst a miniature explosion of Legos. 

"Rosamund, please pick up your toys." He says firmly, looking her in the eye to show he was serious. 

"No." She responds in a level voice, unusual for a toddler. After some experience, Rosie has learned that tantrums get you nowhere. 

Sherlock breaks his strong gaze to look at John for support. He has read multiple books on child raising, yet gawks when it comes down to being firm. Sherlock has always shied away from being the disciplinarian; he leaves that to John. Sherlock is the fun daddy, the one who sneaks an extra candy or lets her stay up late. 

"Then you spend two minutes on the naughty chair." Sherlock points to the little chair that sits in the corner. It's hardly ever used, there more as a reminder than anything else. 

The threat makes Rosie gasp, her soft brown eyes widening. She peers up at Sherlock, her eyes squinted. You can see the wheels turning in her head, it's almost audible. Da would never do that. He wouldn't. He's too fun. She thinks on her theory for a second before sitting back down, considering herself very clever. 

Sherlock stands, relieved as he thinks she decided to obey. Instead, she turns her back and resumes building her tower, pretending he isn't there. 

"Wow…" John says from his chair, newspaper forgotten in his hand. This was much more interesting. 

Silently, Sherlock walks a few paces towards her, leans over and picks Rosie up, carefully plunking her down into the Naughty Chair. 

At first, she doesn't say anything, which makes her parents believe that Rosie has decided to quiet down and accept her timeout. 

As if. 

It takes a few seconds for the great injustice to dawn upon her, and the tiny child starts wailing. 

John stands and grabs Sherlock's shoulder before he can go to Rosie and comfort her. 

"Don't. She's got to learn." John advises. He's already learned to ignore her cries. "It's only two minutes anyway."

"But look at her." Sherlock sighs, gesturing towards his daughter. Her little shoulders are shaking with sobs, which only are getting louder. 

"Imagine it. The great detective is a big softy for a crying baby." John teases, even though he would have easily broken and picked her up, had this happened a few months ago. 

"No, just this particular crying baby." Sherlock corrects, his eyes full of sympathy as he constantly checks the time. It seems that these are the longest two minutes he's ever had to endure. Her cries start to fade, left with plaintive sniffling. "I feel like an arse." 

John checks the clock. "Alright, you can set the prisoner free." He announces. 

Sherlock nods, walking over to the Naughty Chair. Rosie turns her tearful face towards him, raising her arms expectantly. Sherlock happily obliges, lifting her into his arms, where she digs her head into his jacket. He rubs soothing circles on her back to stop the occasional sniffle. 

Sherlock lands a little peck on her blonde head and gives her one last squeeze before putting her back into the circle of lego destruction. 

"Please pick up your toys, Rosie." Sherlock says, failing to regain sternness into his voice. That's John's department anyway. 

Left with no other choice except more tears in the Naughty Chair, Rosie starts tossing the colorful bricks back into the bucket, making a plinking noise as they fall. A sulky expression stays on her face. 

An almost perfect sullen match lies on Sherlock's face as he watches Rosie. 

"Y'know, despite all the crying she makes, I think these timeouts hurt you more than her." John remarks, smiling as he ruffles through Sherlock's hair. If John wasn't here, for certain the toys would have been brushed aside and those two would spend the day watching Bill Nye and gorging on cookies. 

"Hey, stop." Sherlock whinges, craning his head away from John, even though he doesn't really mind. 

John chuckles and kisses Sherlock on the cheek. "Go get us some hot chocolate. I've got a shift in an hour." 

"My, my Doctor, ever so unhealthy. That's the third time this month." Sherlock admonishes with a childish grin, wagging his finger admonishingly."

With no great comeback, John just motions for Sherlock to go. "Just hurry up." 

 

The three sit on the couch, sipping hot chocole - well, Rosie's is just warm chocolate milk in a sippy cup- flipping through John's phone. Rosie is learning faces remarkably well, and John is always testing her. 

"Who's that?" John asks, pointing at the tiny screen. 

"Mawlly." Rosie says, her speech garbled under the sippy cup. 

"And that?"

"Da." She announces with a smile. 

"And this person?" 

"Fatty." 

John snorts, putting down the phone with the picture of Mycroft. 

"Sherlock, by chance have you been venting about Mycroft to Rosie again?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but I'm back with another chapter! Hope you liked, and always feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism.


	5. The Case of the Missing Child, Part One

"Keep your eyes on her at all times, don't let her on the big slide, and-" 

"I know how to take care of a toddler." Sherlock interrupts, kneeled to the floor as he buttons up Rosie's flower print sweater.

"I know." John admits, a sheepish smile on his face. "Just be-"

"Careful. Stop worrying. It's just the park, John. I'm not taking her to Timbuktu." Sherlock says, standing and grasping his daughter's hand. 

All three head downstairs, pausing at the doorway. 

"See you at three." Sherlock says before landing a quick kiss to John's lips. 

"Bye Daddy." Rosie waves, her light brown eyes alight with excitement. She loves going to the park. 

John says goodbye and leaves in the opposite direction, hunting for a taxi. 

It takes about ten minutes for them to reach the park, which is ten minutes too long in Rosie's opinion. Her little legs tire halfway through, which means that her Da carried her the rest of the way. She asks "Are we almost there?" seven times, to which Sherlock always answered the same. "Almost."

The second she see the playground, Rosie starts squirming, wriggling her arms and legs to escape Sherlock's grip. The second he places her on the ground she is off like a bullet, straight for the swings. 

"Da, push me!!" She yells, kicking her legs as she (im)patiently waits. Her honey brown pigtails are bouncing up and down. Of course, Sherlock did them, after watching every tutorial possible on YouTube. 

"Faster!" She says again, her voice tinged with a whine. "You're slow."

"I'm arriving at a perfectly ordinary pace." Sherlock replies as he stands behind the swing set, raising the seat up to his chest. 

"You talk silly." She giggles as her hands grip the chain tight. 

Sherlock holds the seat up, yet not pushing. The anticipation is killing the poor child. Just as she is about to complain, he pushes her high into the air. 

Rosie laughs, not afraid that this is much higher than Daddy would push her. A thrill-seeker, just like her father. 

Eventually she tires of the swings, and simply jumps right off as it's still swinging. Rosie lands on her hands and feet on the mulch, up and running to the sandbox without second thought. 

"Careful." Sherlock admonishes, his heart not calming down after seeing her jump. It brought back bad memories. 

Sand gets in Rosie's hair, shoes, and sweater. Nevertheless, she is happy to play with a little red headed girl around her age. 

All at once, a horde of tiny children floods the playground. The local pre-school just finished, and all the students go to this particular playground afterwards. 

One particular pre-schooler decides he wants to play in the sandbox, and isn't very patient. 

"Go way." Rosie says as calmly as a three year old can. Which isn't very calm. 

The little boy snatches the trowel from her hands, plopping down into the sandbox and crushing the castle. 

"Hey!" Rosie's friend yells in indignation, her pale cheeks reddening. 

Just as Sherlock goes in to intervene, Rosie decides to take the law into her own hands. She roughly takes back her trowel with one hand and punches him in the arm as hard as she can. 

"Buhdy batard." Rosie screeches, and then puts icing on the cake. She holds up two fingers and harshly pokes the boy in the eyes, Three Stooges style (Perhaps John was right about that show being too violent for such a young child). 

It's deadly silent, all the parents are whispering amongst themselves. The boy's mother rushes in to pick up the crying child. His eyes will hurt for a little, but there isn't any permanent damage. 

Sherlock grabs Rosie by the hand and runs out of the park and doesn't slow down until they are far from angry parents. The two find a bench and sit down, tired from running. 

"Rosamund Mary Watson, that was very naughty. I would have told the boy to give you back your trowel, and there would have been no problem." Sherlock scolds, the harshness taken away by the fact that he is out of breath. "Hitting isn't nice. And neither is poking someone in the eye. You could have hurt him badly."

Rosie nods solemnly, her eyes to the floor. He sighs and rubs his eyes. A vicious headache is definitely coming on. "We'll see about the consequences when we arrive home." Sherlock says, turning to Rosie, who is not on the bench. 

Repeat: NOT ON THE BENCH.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's going to be split in two parts; the other one will probably come out by next week or so. Hope you guys liked it, and always feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism.


	6. The Case of the Missing Child, Part Two

Sherlock's eyes widen, and he quickly scans the area, which does not contain a certain Rosamund Watson. The bloody London streets are crowded, thick with people. Damn tourists. 

"Rosie?" Sherlock shouts, wildly looking around. Nowhere to be found. 

Panic sets in. Adrenaline kicks in. 

He wracks his brain, frantically spinning as he tries to imagine her plan. How would a three year old think? And there's the problem. Toddlers don't have logic. They are easily bored and distracted. A butterfly flits past them, and they are chasing it down without a thought of stopping. 

Sherlock starts with the most obvious choices, the local candy and toy stores. Nothing. How could she disappear so quickly? 

Anything could have happened. She could have been kidnapped, taken in an instant by experts. Maybe she walked right into the street and was hit by a car. What if- Oh, damn. His mind was clouded with too many horrific scenarios. A life spent in solving gory crimes does not help. 

Sherlock's breathing is erratic and short, his head swimming in blackness. Little Rosie could be anywhere. 

"Rosie?" He continues to shout, hands cupped around his mouth. His voice shaky and hoarse. Many sympathetic parents look at him with pity. Every parent has experienced losing a child in a crowd. 

What would John think? What would he say? This was like losing Mary all over again. Sherlock's heart drums violently in his chest, his head pounding. His mouth is painfully dry. 

John has just trusted him enough to take Rosie out for the day, and he goes and bloody loses her. There was no third chance. 

With shaking hands, Sherlock dials a number on his phone. 

"Lestrade?" 

"Hey, Sherlock. You okay?, you sound a little queasy." Lestrade asks in concern. 

"I lost her. I lost Rosie. I blinked, and she was gone." Sherlock says bluntly, still searching as he speaks. 

"Oh, bloody hell." A torrent of curses stream from Lestrade's mouth. 

"Not my division, but you have to wait 24 hours before we can announce she's missing. You already loo- Oh of course you have. How long's it been?" 

"I don't know." Sherlock checks his watch. "Forty minutes?" It certainly felt more like hours. 

"She knows her address, and your phone number?" 

Sherlock nods, "Of course she does."

"Alright. I'll see what I can do. You should go tell John." Lestrade says before hanging up the phone. He needs to talk to those that specialize in missing children. They owed him some favors. 

Sherlock spends the slow walk home thinking of what he would say to John. He absolutely dreads that conversation. His throat is sore from yelling for Rosie and his temples ache. 

He slams the door as he walks in, heading to Mrs Hudson's flat. Perhaps she could dispense some much-needed wisdom. She certainly has plenty to share. 

Imagine Sherlock's shock when he opens the door to find Mrs Hudson and Rosie sitting in her kitchen, eating biscuits and juice. 

For once, the brilliant detective is speechless. "What- I was looking all over for you." He manages to say, eyes wide. 

"I thought you knew! I was driving by and I saw you two. I stopped at the curb - weren't there a lot of bloody summer tourists? I could hardly see a thing- and asked Rosie if she wanted to come over for a bit, and she said you agreed." Mrs Hudson looks in surprise at the mischievous child at her table. 

"Well, that's not very honest, is it?" Sherlock states, directing his eyes to his runaway daughter. 

Her eyes dart to the floor, messy crumbs coating her mouth. Daddy Sherlock would have said no if she asked, because he was still cross over her poking the kid's eyes. (Which he has completely forgotten about now.)

"C'mon then, tell Mrs Hudson goodbye." Sherlock instructs, reaching out his hand for Rosie to grasp. 

"Goodbye, Hudders." She says, plopping down from the chair, a half eaten biscuit still in her hand. 

Sherlock grins at her childish pronunciation, only to remember that he should be very upset over the panic Rosie caused. His heart was only just beginning to calm down. 

"You know that was very, very naughty. First of all, you'll spend some time in the Naughty Chair, and you can't go to the cinema tomorrow." 

Rosie was about to start complaining, but decided against it. There was something terribly frightened in Da's eyes when he walked in, as if he were worried all day. 

"Second, we never tell Daddy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that came out later than I thought. I was crazy busy last week. Hope you liked, and always feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism! :)


	7. Edmund

Molly was tired. No, scratch that. She was exhausted. Her brother was going through a nasty divorce, and needed a babysitter for a week. She's spent the past few days chasing little Tommy around her flat and waking at horrific hours. Molly was once awoken at 5 in the morning, a certain toddler jumping in her bed and demanding breakfast. Her eyes were red and she consumed coffee like it was life-giving air. Her usually neat brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, strands of frowsy hair sticking up every which way. 

So when John arrivedfor a play date, he proposed she take a short break. Molly looked from the hyper little boy to her bedroom (which seemed to be calling out to her with the sound of sleep).

She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "If I sleep more than half an hour, wake me." 

John nodded in agreement, even though he had no intention of waking her. The poor, overworked woman needed her sleep. Molly gave a small smile before heading to her bedroom for sweet, sweet sleep. 

"And John-" She called out, turning her head. "If Tommy learns any new fancy swear words, it will be your body on my slab." Molly warned, her voice genuinely frightening. Once could forget that despite her usually sweet demeanor, she cut up bodies for a living. 

John attempted a laugh. Damn, can she be scary. 

"Daddy look!" Rosie shouted, her little legs hurrying from the living room as she carries Tommy's tablet. She quickly pointed at the photo displayed on the screen. 

"I want one!" 

The picture was of a fluffy grey kitten, who was Tommy's latest pet. He was rather spoiled. 

"Can we get a kitty? Please?" Rosie tucked the tablet into her underarms so she could form a begging motion with her hands. "Please!?!" 

John paused, trying to think of what to say. Sherlock was extremely allergic to pet dander, even though that never stopped him from pursuing and petting every dog that walks the London streets. He subsequently would break into a rash and sneeze nonstop. 

"I'm quite sure Mrs Hudson doesn't allow pets." He offered weakly. He doesn't want to pin the blame on Sherlock. 

"Sure?" Rosie asked forlornly, her eyes widening in sadness, her little lip quivering. 

It would take the strength of ten men to say no to that face. No one could be that strong. 

"We'll ask her. Now go play with Tommy." John stalled, hoping to come up with a better solution soon. "And try to watch your mouth, Molly'll have my head on a stake if she hears more." 

Momentarily distracted, Rosie walked off to play homicide investigation with Tommy. It was her turn to be the detective anyway. 

\---------------------

"Missuh Hudders, can we have a pet?" Rosie asked the second she walked into Mrs Hudson's flat. Of course she didn't forget. 

"Well, I don't see why not. Mrs Turner's married ones have a terrier." Mrs Hudson said , sneaking a lollipop into her purple jacket. 

"See Daddy, we can get a kitty!" Rosie said with a big grin. 

"We'll see, sweetheart. Y'know there are other kinds of pets. We could get a parakeet, or maybe a turtle." John's was desperate to get his daughter to change her mind.

She brought it up again at breakfast the next morning. 

"A pet is a fantastic idea. We could get a bloodhound, or maybe a beagle." Sherlock smiled. He definitely had an affinity for hunting dogs. 

John tried to wordlessly signal Sherlock, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. 

"You have the A-L-L-E-R-G-I-E-S." John spelled out. 

"That can't be that big of a deal." Sherlock lied plainly. His allergies were quite the big deal. "We could at least go look at the animal shelter." 

"Yeah! Please, Daddy?" Rosie chimed in 

John sighed, giving in. There was no way to say no when those two teamed up. 

"But just to look."

The closest shelter was a bit small, yet every cage was filled. That was somehow good and bad. These animals should be in homes, not in cages. 

Sherlock tugged on John's jumper when they entered the dog room. At least the dog room had cells instead of cages. The dogs could walk around without being restricted. 

"Look John!" 

There sat a basset hound mix, gazing up at them with big, sad eyes. He was an older dog, grey hairs growing at his muzzle. 

Sherlock kneeled to the floor, pressing his fingers against the chainlink wall that separated them. The dog nuzzled his nose against the wall, which caused Sherlock to start sneezing. 

"C'mon." John chided, pulling Sherlock away from the lovely old hound. 

Rosie lost it at the cat room. It was kitten season, and many were recently brought in from foster care. 

"Daddy, look!" 

A black and white kitten mewed indignantly in her cage, sticking her tiny paw out to swat at passerbys. 

"She's adorable." John commented, smiling at the kitten's feisty attitude. He peered at her tag. "Her name's Luna."

Before Rosie could beg and say "Please!!", John advised they look at the small animal room. Maybe they could distract her for a little longer before gently telling her no. 

What they saw in the room stopped them in their tracks. 

It was John's turn to grin and say, "Sherlock, come look!" 

Sherlock was still lagging behind, as he was watching a large black cat play with a catnip mouse. His eyes widened at what he saw. 

Inside a large aquarium sat a bearded dragon on a branch, soaking in the warmth from the lamp. 

How did a bearded dragon even end up at a shelter? 

"What do you think, Rosie?" John asked, little Rosie transfixed by the creature. 

"He is so cool." Is all she said, her face close to the glass. The dragon turned his spiky head, staring straight at Rosie. He had an arrogant aura about him, as if he were saying, "Yup, I'm a freaking dragon. What are you?" 

She looked up at her daddy, not even saying anything this time. Her eyes did all the pleading. 

"Absolutely." Both of her daddies said in unison. 

Within the week, the reptile was brought home. He always looked unimpressed, even when sitting in his spacious new aquarium. 

Sherlock argued they should name him Rathbone, while Rosie wanted him to be named Henry. Those two bickered back and forth on why their name was better, until John finally broke it up. 

"We'll name him Edmund, alright." John said with finality. Neither parties complained, and so the dragon was named Edmund. He spent most of his time on the arm of the sofa, perched in solitude. Mrs Hudson even made him a tiny sweater for wintertime. 

It was torn up in minutes by an unimpressed Edmund. He was quite the pompous little lizard, rude and ungrateful. 

He would fit in just fine in 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fan fact #1, I actually volunteer at my local animal shelter. It's loads of fun and loads of work. 
> 
> Fun fact #2, I was inspired to write this chapter because I recently adopted two male gerbils. One is dark grey, and the other light grey. Of course I named them Watson and Holmes! XD
> 
> Hope you liked, and always feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism! :)
> 
> P.S, Thank you for the 3,000 hits! That's awesome.


	8. Lisa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, Rosie's much older in this chapter, somewhere around five or six. Just to clarify things.

Rosie always whined and complained when her daddies left to solve crimes. Sure, there was nothing wrong with staying with Mrs Hudson, but she hated being left out. They always came back excited and talking to each other nonstop. Sometimes, on a good day, they would let her see a few pictures. Never the really gory ones, of course. The three would sit near the fireplace and spread out the pictures on the floor, commenting on each. Rosie would do her best to follow along and pretend she understood. 

One Thursday afternoon, John and Sherlock had plans to go inspect the unfortunate corpse that needed its death resolved. The body had just arrived at Bart's, and the two needed to hurry if they wanted to see the evidence firsthand. They needed to forgo the initial investigation as they had been visiting Gramma Holmes at the time. 

If you wanted to get anything, you should always ask Da. You could get farther with him. Rosie casually walked into the corridor as Sherlock was putting on his coat. He was going to go meet up with John at Bart's. 

"Hey, Da." She started, trying to be as innocent as possible. 

"Yes, Love?" Sherlock replied, tying up his scarf. There was something mightily suspicious in his daughter's voice. She paused for a moment, considering the best way to put this. 

"Canna go?" Rosie finally said in as sweet a tone as possible. She laid the cuteness on thick, her big eyes looking up and her little hands clasped. 

Sherlock sighed. He had been putting it off for a while. She was bound to feel left out after some time. 

"You know what your Daddy says." Sherlock desperately hoped she would understand, accept and move on, go to Mrs Hudson's flat and watch telly. 

Like hell. She was too much like her fathers. 

The cab beeped outside. 

"I'll feed Edmund for a month." Rosie bargained, hoping for some leverage. 

Before her daddy could say no, she said, "Two months?" Rosie tugged on the edge of his coat. 

"Okay, go put on your jacket." Sherlock said, knowing he couldn't say no to that face. At least it wasn't a very bloody murder. 

Damn, she really could get almost anything from him. 

Of course, Rosie knew he would have relented, as she had her little blue hoodie ready near the door. 

Sherlock grabbed his phone as he ushered her out the door. He would need to explain to John before he had a conniption at the sight of Rosie at a murder investigation. 

Mrs Hudson is out. I'm bringing Rosie.  
-Sh. 

Alright. We can leave her with Molly in one of the offices. -J

Well, maybe they could warm him up to the idea of letting Rosie stay. 

"What'd he say?" Rosie asked, craning her head up to catch a glimpse of the phone screen. 

"He's not having a fit, so there's that." Sherlock replied with a smile. 

\-------At Bart's-------

As soon as the two walked into the lab, John was there to greet them. 

"Hi, Rosie. You're gonna go with Molly for no-" John said, pointing to the door. 

"Is that the body?" Rosie interrupted, wriggling away from Sherlock's hand. 

The corpse was covered with a plain white sheet, only the face was visible. Rosie stood on her toes to see, her hands behind her back to ensure she didn't touch anything. 

The woman was young, about twenty, with short blonde hair and freckled skin. She was a victim of cyanide poisoning. 

"Rosie!" John said exasperation, walking up to her. 

"Let her." Sherlock said firmly before turning his head to Rosie. He shoved a chair close to the table. She climbed up, getting a better view. Sherlock put a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

"What do you see?" He asked quietly. 

Rosie had been asking for this for months, yet now that she was here, she was nervous. Her voice cracked. 

"Umm... It was poison." She said first, pointing to the foamy substance near the victim's mouth. 

"Mmhm, and what else?" If it was anyone else making these deductions, Sherlock would probably have made some comment on their unfathomable stupidity. 

"What was her name?" Rosie asked, her voice sympathetic. 

"Lisa." Sherlock replied, looking at the tag. 

She leaned closer to her face. "She wore lotsa makeup." Her voice was louder, a touch more confident. 

And Rosie was right. The victim's skin was oily and her eyelids had multiple splotches of eyeshadow, as if she never wiped off last night's makeup before applying fresh makeup. 

"Alright, that's enough." John said, having had enough. She was too young. He placed his hands on her torso, picking her up. 

Rosie shook her shoulders, kicking to move from his grip. 

"She was poor. Look at her hair!" Rosie pointed out. The hair was a ghastly shade of bleach blonde, with dark brown roots grown out by a few inches. 

The lab door slammed open. Sherlock grimaced, counting to three before the outburst. 

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! We're gonna have to start screening you every time you come in!" Molly shouted, taking Rosie from John. 

"Sorry you had to hear that. Let's go color in my office." Molly said in a much nicer tone, leading Rosie away from the body. 

Rosie frowned turning her head to meet Sherlock's eyes. He smiled, giving her a thumbs up and mouthed, 

"You did great."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I know it took a while to update, sorry bout that. Life can be hectic. Hope you liked, and feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism. :)


	9. Rosie and the Violin, Revisited.

Watching Sherlock play the violin fascinated Rosie. And not because she had apparently broken one of the strings as a baby. (Rosie was fairly certain that her parents were making that up.)

He swayed with the music, his eyes closed and his face peaceful. At least, when he was happy. You could always tell his emotions from the way he played. If he was angry, he would storm off to the bedroom and play loudly, the noise screeching on purpose. That happened often during difficult cases or fights with Mycroft. 

Every morning, at seven o'clock, Sherlock would practice. It was a habit ingrained in him since childhood, and he was a methodical man after all. Despite the many years he had played, he would always try to improve. John didn't think he could get any better than he was now. 

Rosie was lying on the couch, surrounded by half finished homework as she watched. She was half asleep, but that was okay. It was Saturday. Edmund sat on her knee, basking in the morning sunlight. 

"Da?" She asked, absentmindedly petting Edmund's head. 

"Yes, Love?" He didn't stop playing, continuing to play the difficult piece. 

"Could I learn the violin?" Rosie leaned her head against the couch's arm. 

Sherlock considered this for a moment. John and he were looking into music lessons. "Hmm. Most people recommend learning the piano first, and then moving on to an instrum-" 

"Did you?" She interrupted, lifting her head. 

"No, but-"

"If you can do it, so can I." She said, stubbornness tinged in her voice. 

"What are you two talking about?" John walked into the living room, a bag of groceries in his hands. 

"Daddy, canna learn the violin?" Rosie asked, twisting her body to face John. 

"If you want. We just have to find one." John replied, emptying the food onto the table. 

Rosie carefully picked up Edmund from her knee, placing him back into his tank. She then scurried to the kitchen to sneakily nab the box of biscuits. 

"Rosie!" John called out after her as she opened up the box. "Just have one, dear!" 

Sherlock said she could have two. 

\---

Sherlock's favourite music store was small and rather empty today, save for a few people. Rosie made a beeline for the violin section. A desperate employee walked behind her, knowing some parents were bound to follow. The poor bloke worked on commission. He hounded anyone who stepped in. 

Sherlock and John eventually caught up with her (Much too slow in Rosie's opinion). They stood in front of a formidable wall of violins. There were violins of all shapes, sizes, and colors. 

"Hello, can I help you with anything?" The employee asked in a horribly cheerful voice. He crossed his fingers behind his back. 

"We're looking for a violin for our daughter." John replied, motioning to Rosie, who was talking with a little girl around her age. Must have been important, considering how serious they looked. Sherlock was off looking at equipment and sheet music. 

"We have a selection of smaller violins for younger students." The employee breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed the ladder, pulling small violins down from the wall. 

"Ah, good. Sherlock, Rosie come and look." 

Sherlock came quickly, different supplies in hand. Rosie, however, stayed in what looked like a heated argument with the girl.

"Rosie." John repeated, tapping her shoulder. 

"Coming." She replied, giving the girl the finger as she walked towards her parents. 

It felt that the few people still in the store all looked at her in that one moment. John forced a "kids do the darndest things" smile as he turned to Sherlock. The employee was still bringing down dozens of violins, he was so happy to get paid. 

"Where did she learn that?" He asked in that quiet, angry voice that signaled danger. 

Sherlock lifted his hands in innocence. "Not from me." 

John glared, his arms crossed. "Has she seen any movies above a Pg rating?"

Sherlock felt his throat dry. Dammit, the Look was worse than being interrogated by the FBI (Which has happened more than a few times). 

"Perhaps..." Sherlock muttered. "But it was just one."

The almighty John Watson frown graced his face. "And what was the rating?" 

"Pg-13" 

John didn't say anything, simply raised one eyebrow in doubt. 

"R" Sherlock admitted. He was a terrible liar in front of John. 

"You're sleeping on the couch." John stated, his voice barely above a whisper. 

It was Sherlock's turn to frown. 

\---

"Place it like this, under your chin." Sherlock demonstrated before moving to rearrange Rosie's violin. "Like that."

"Put your finger here, and draw the bow over the strings." He instructed. 

The violin let out a horrific shriek, loud and piercing. The two winced in unison. 

"It'll take time." Sherlock added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this being so short, as I didn't have much time to write. This one will be a two-parter, as I want to write more on Rosie's lessons. 
> 
> Comment down below what instruments you play, I'd love to hear! I've been playing the piano for three years. It's fun and great for relieving stress.


	10. I Wanna Play Like You!

Rosie has spent a lot of her time in her room, practicing. This late Sunday morning you could hear the high-pitched squeals of the instrument. She was improving quickly. 

John walked over to her room, tapping on the door a few times. "Rosie? Time for breakfast." 

The simple music stopped and the door opened. Rosie's tired face greeted him. Dark shadows were smudged under her eyes and her lipght blonde hair was frowsy and stuck up in tangles. The chestnut colored violin was still in her hands. 

"Daddy, I'm practicing." She insisted, moving to close the door. 

John kept the door open with his hand. 

"You can take a five-minute break." He advised, brushing her wild hair away from her face. 

"I need to practice." Rosie insisted, her tone stubborn. She tried to close the door again. "I'm not even hungry." A loud stomach growl made her last statement irrelevant. 

"Rosie..." John's voice grew sterner.

She frowned and gently placed the instrument down. Shoving herself past her Daddy, Rosie stomped her way to the kitchen. John sighed and followed her. Trouble was coming. 

"Morning, Rosie." Sherlock said amiably, sitting at the table, a cup of black coffee in hand. 

"Hmm." Her brown eyes were darker than usual, never a good sign.

"Toast and oatmeal?" John asked for confirmation, opening the pantry door. 

"Sure." Rosie muttered, her eyes glued to the ground. 

John was about to open the bag of bread, only for Sherlock to nudge him and say, "I wouldn't open that one if I were you. Rosie and I are growing mold in there."

"One or two slices?" John said after grabbing the right, non experimenting loaf of bread. 

"I don't care." Rosie said as she leaned her head against her arm. Realizing he needed an answer, she then said, "Two, I suppose."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and turned to John, silently asking what was the matter.

"Someone's in a b-a-d m-o-o-d." John spelled out as he slid two slices of bread down the toaster. 

"I know what you said, Daddy. I'm not stupid." Rosie pointed out, her mood interrupted for a moment by her eagerness to show how clever she was. 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, even though he already had pieced together what probably happened. It was better to hear what she would say. 

She looked at John for moment before leaning close to Sherlock and whispering, 

"Daddy's being mean and won't let me play violin." 

"Mmhm. I'm sure he had a very good rea-" Sherlock was cut off by the sound of the phone ringing. He leaned over and grabbed it. 

"Who is it?" John whispered to Sherlock. 

Placing his hand on the receiver, he responded "Rosie's teacher. Horrid."

John nodded as he handed Rosie her plate of food. "Here you go."

She immediately began attacking the food, even though moments ago she had insisted she wasn't hungry. 

"What do you say?" John asked, cupping his hand to his ear. 

"Thmyu." Rosie's voice was unintelligible as she mumbled the words out. 

"I didn't catch that." John waited, arms crossed. 

"Thank you, okay!" She yelled, turning to avoid John as she ate her food. 

"Shh!" Sherlock whisper-shouted, a finger to his lips. It seemed the conversation was ending. 

"Alright, goodbye." His tone was snippish and curt as he placed the phone down. He immediately placed his gaze on Rosie. 

"Rosamund, I know school can be boring and feel like a waste of time, but that is no reason to skip homework." Sherlock steepled his hands underneath his chin. 

"You've been skipping homework?" John repeated in surprise. 

Rosie looked at both of her fathers, her mind working quickly to find a way out of this. 

"Da, Uncle My said you never turned in homework. He said you got kicked out of four different schools. But you turned out fine." 

John gave Sherlock an incredulous look. "You told me it was two." 

Sherlock waved his hand, as if to dismiss the past. "That's no matter. And besides, I did not turn out "fine.'" He sighed. "Most of my teenage days were spent juggling between experiments, drugs, and being a nosy pric- jerk." 

"It's the violin." John said suddenly, realizing the issue. He knew their daughter was whip-smart and probably way above her grade level, so the issue was not of her intelligence but of her distraction. 

"No it's not!" Rosie argued, her voice rising. She was getting dangerously close to a full on strop. Just when they thought she was getting too old for that. 

"You spend too much time practicing. It's distracting you from schoolwork." John stated. "Go get it."

"Da!" Rosie turned to Sherlock for support, but he only shook his head. He saw the bags under her eyes and the tiredness of her arms. 

"It'll just be a small break until you catch up with all the work." Sherlock said in comfort. 

Frowning miserably, Rosie crossed her arms and stomped to her room to retrieve her beloved instrument. 

"Da, please." She pleaded, looking up at her easier going father. She clutched the violin protectively in her small arms. "I'll stop getting better."

"It'll only be a week or so. After that, maybe we'll set a new schedule. Lessons every few days and practicing 30 minutes a day?" John recommended, hoping it would soften the blow. 

"That's not enough time!" She whinged. 

"Just hand it here." Sherlock held his hand outstretched. 

Her eyes wide and upset, Rosie pushed the violin into Sherlock's arm so roughly that he nearly dropped it. He placed it carefully on the table, and crouched down to talk eye-to-eye with his little daughter. 

"Rosie, calm down. Your improving quickly, and 30 minutes a day is more than enough time." Sherlock said, offering a small smile. 

"But I wanna play like you!" There was also the unspoken statement of " I wanna be like you."

"That'll take some time. You're on the right track." Sherlock said, leaning over to give her a hug. 

Rosie pushed him away and threw a blow to his chest as hard as her small fist could. All three gasped. She's hit plenty of people. She's hit bullies at playgrounds, good-intentioned pediatricians trying to administer a shot, even Molly's nephew at one point. (Now that scolding was a big one, very long and harsh. Never mess with Molly Hooper.)

Either way, Rosie had never hit John or Sherlock. It was her own silent rule, the line she dared not cross. 

You could hear a pin drop in the flat. 

"Rosamund, apologize." John said after the silence became agonizing. "Hitting is not nice, in fact, it's very mean. You can hurt people." 

Rosie started to sniffle, her eyes filling with tears. "Does it hurt?" She asked, gesturing towards his chest. 

Sherlock bit his lip and tried hard not to smile at the innocent question. 

"No, Love. C'mere." Sherlock enveloped her in a monstrously tight hug. 

Rosie dug her face into Sherlock's blue robe, mumbling "I'msawree." multiple times. 

This time, they didn't bother to ask her to speak clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. It's been ages since the last update! I feel really bad for not posting, but I was occupied by other works and the complications of real life. I do have some ideas for the next few chapters, so updates may come quicker!
> 
> Hope you liked, and always feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism! :)


End file.
